


The Screaming Angels in Oil Paintings

by Fear



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Creepy Hannibal, Dark Will, Hallucinations, Hannibal is a dick, Haunted Houses, Horror, Insanity, Poor Will, Post-Season/Series 03, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Terror, The Yellow Wallpaper, mansion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fear/pseuds/Fear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will drowned in that ocean- he died in those waves beneath the cliff. All that is alive now is some empty shell, pretending he is still human, telling himself that he still has morals. Will is reduced to nothing, has been physically torn apart and now has nothing besides Hannibal- stuck in a mansion wandering the days away, his own imagination his only true company left. The Wendigo prowls through the halls, Hannibal grows more and more psychotic, and Will is left with only his faltering sanity to try to take back the parts of him that once made him human. The houses walls warp before him and he is stuck both sleeping and living through a nightmare that has merged into Will's fading life, but he doesn't know if he wants to return to being that moral person again, to be human again. </p><p>Dark themes, psychological trauma, and lots of horror</p><p>Inspired by The Yellow Wallpaper</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wandering

The house was relatively huge. It stood four stories high, in addition to a basement that seemed to just keep digging deeper and deeper into the ground. It was painted in ornate tans and blues, the shingles layered in reds to match brickwork that crawled up each side. Although, despite its immensity, Will often felt claustrophobic during the period he lived in that Victorian mansion. Each room was more of a cabinet sectioned off from the rest of the house, each hallway bent and thin, each stairwell crammed up against a wall, nearly impossible to find alone. There was only one door that went back to the outside, an ornate oak entrance way lined in red stained glass, such a deep crimson, Will felt like flinching away whenever light ran through its bloody patterns. Speechlessly, Will hated the house. He missed his home in Baltimore, he missed his dogs, he missed being retired. Yet here he was, in hiding from the FBI and a good portion of Europe, presumed dead and in truth mortally wounded. 

After the fall Hannibal brought him here, wherever here was. Since their arrival, Will had never left. He stayed in his room, the room he claimed for its large windows and tall ceilings as to illusion him that the building wasn’t as cramped as it really was. It was a large room, fit for a lord, with a hideous king-sized bed laced in gaudy golden fabric, a cherry colored wood floor recently polished, and this yellow wallpaper, the hue of something vulgar metastasizing, rotting. It was dirty, torn in some places, whitewashed in others and occasionally charred in burns. Hannibal explained that there was a fire a few decades back. 

The house was ancient, a real piece of history, adorned in antique furniture and colorful rugs, galleries upon galleries worth of artwork- oil paintings of people looking into the heavens from the dark grounds of the earth, angels dancing in the clouds, angels laughing, or crying, or screaming. People dying, anguish abbreviated on on each face, confined to their framed prisons. Even so, Will was almost jealous of them, locked away in a spacious, unmoving place while he was confined to one of turning parts, terror behind each corner, nightmares carved into his skull each night. Nightmares of when he killed the great, red, dragon. When Hannibal had finally succeeded in peeling back every human part of Will, leaving him with this corpse that wandered mansions and stared blankly at paintings of screaming angels. 

 

Will broke a good portion of his bones in the fall, bruising almost every inch of flesh that made first contact with the ocean. Aside from that, he was tossed into rocks, nearly drowned, and sustained a concussion that seemingly would not recover. Even with Will turning into a pulp, strangely, Hannibal sustained little to no injury at all, like he never was truly human to begin with, not that it surprised Will at all. He would sooner suspect Hannibal as satan rather than an actual, feeling person. Then again, satan was once a being of light, something that was able to feel empathy, and perhaps still is.

He spent the first few days in the mansion bed ridden, just waiting in pain, trying not to wreath in response to the raw agony of pure physical pain. Honestly most of those days were spent in an unconscious limbo, flashing in and out of existence in cold fevers, whispering terrors, and Hannibal standing over him with a wicked look of understanding, as if this was his plan from the very beginning, it was his plan to watch Will panic through so much pain. 

But then it got better. He healed. He was able to sit up, then stand, then walk around his room, and now, maybe months later, he wandered the mansion, alone. Hannibal was gone most of the time, out getting dinner or something, setting new records for local serial killers, or something. So Will wandered. He thought about just leaving once, but where would he go? What did he have left outside of Hannibal? The FBI thought he was dead, but if they discovered him alive and well, Will was a wanted man. He couldn’t go home, someone would notice. He had no idea where Alana or Margot ran off to, but they were undoubtedly in some dark corner of the world where they could live happily with expensive wine in their hands and perhaps a child on the way. Who knew what became of his dogs by now. Perhaps Alana pulled one last favor for him, perhaps not. 

The majority of his time was dedicated to aimless wandering, prowling through each room to see what was behind each door, in each closet, beneath each bed. He would crash through the kitchen each day, looking for anything that Hannibal had not touched, anything that was morally edible, not that Will truly believed his previous, life-long standing morals still existed. No, his philosophies had long evolved, or rather, were killed off and re-shaped in a terrible game of natural selection, his own head being the playing field. Now he believed himself a murderer. He had done it- he drew blood and enjoyed it, relished it, fantasized of it though he repeatedly told himself not to. This conflict was where the nightmares grew from, but it was easier to manage them because it wasn’t like Will had gone many nights before hand without terrors lurking in the dark parts of his head. 

Once he went to the basement. Hannibal told him that there was in fact another basement beneath this one, but it was hard to imagine as the staircase down there was already long and winding enough. It was dark down there and the lights didn’t work, so Will left, scared as if he was some kid again believing that the monsters lived there. Will was an adult though, and he knew where the monster lived. It lived in the walls, in Hannibal, in the Red Dragon, and mostly in himself. It was there- prowling, snarling, itching to be set free again, itching for Will to kill again. 

 

Will rarely talked to Hannibal, let alone saw him. When he did though, it was always strange encounters filled with idle ‘hello’s or ‘goodnight’s or ‘Hannibal, I hope you burn in hell’s- the normal. Hannibal would sometimes wake Will from his nightmares, trying to show kindness, but Will did his best to brush it off, degrade Hannibal back to the animal he was, though now Will was down there on the moral scale with him. Now he was the animal too. 

They poked and prodded at him, they threw him in a cage, they forced him into the things he swore never to do again, and then they killed or destroyed everyone he loved- and now, finally after all of it, they succeeded. Or rather, Hannibal succeeded. They took away his human parts and replaced them with something else. Something foreign. So Will wandered mansions, watching oil paintings, trying to decide between this limbo or death, ate food that made him feel more human, thought things that made him feel more human, did things that made him feel more human, but deep down, both Will and Hannibal knew that that was not true.


	2. Creak

“Will! Will!”

Dark eyes, no, there weren’t any. Hollow. The bugs were eating them out, they were not there yet he could still see, he could still see the red pooling, the hands gripping, the water consuming. The hands were choking him- no, the water was drowning him. No- the wendigo, the wendigo was preparing him; dark, leathery red wings unfurled from its slender back, poking out from behind the knobbed backbones. The water was hot, the water burned through his eyes, ate through them like bugs, like a parasite. Will tried to gasp, tried to move, but he couldn’t. He was squirming in a straight jacket and he couldn’t reach his eyes- itching, stinging, aching with the seeping agony. He could not cover them or close them or prevent himself from seeing was he was seeing. He could not stop looking at all the blood, all the bodies, all of the amassed human hatred. And the hot water, it was drowning him, and Will could not swim. Will was just stuck pulling at the jacket, paralyzed while the wendigo watched him indifferently. 

“Will! Wake up!”

Hannibal was crouched over him- a looming shadow against the darkness of Will’s room. He was holding his head, shaking him, still shaking Will to wake up. 

“I-”

“You were dreaming, you know this, right?”

Will’s eyes lulled for a moment in a hazy fog before he could respond. 

“I- I’m awake.” Will glanced around the room, brushing Hannibal away from him, unknowingly cringing away. No wendigo, none besides the one in front of him, the one lurking within himself.

Hannibal gave Will a look of worry. It was genuine, but Will had no intention of taking Hannibal’s sympathy, he could not stoop so low as to rely on the human comforts of something that was incredibly inhuman. 

“I’m, good. P-Please, leave.” Will’s voice cracked from exhaustion, but still got the point across.

There was a look in Hannibal’s face that he would rather stay, rather watch as Will drifted back to his haunted neural pathways and squirm under the beckonings of his own imagination, but he did turn and leave politely, letting the door fall after him, mumbling a faint goodnight. 

Will stared into the wall. 

There was a time when he thought that he could not classify Hannibal- the Chesapeake Ripper was no psychopath, no sociopath, no deranged loon or politically driven madman. The serial killer had empathy, and Will had seen that- through the crime scenes, the blood stains, the guts hanging like limp rope from the victims’ torn places- Will saw it. The empathy. Hannibal did not hate his victims, if anything he loved them and connected with them in a very human manner, killing them to abide in a conflict of self, a will to do so. 

Hannibal could be classified as human. But after everything that had happened, after every snakish move Hannibal had made to manipulate everyone around him-particularly Will- and had screwed with so many lives, it was hard to see him as empathetic, all of that human buried deep within his satanic actions. Will could not help him now, but he could prevent himself from turning into that. Or Will thought he could. 

The wallpaper seemed to dance for Will, the dull yellows almost vibrating as moonlight fragmented its broken pieces into individualized places of mutilation.  
That’s where the monsters lurk, Will thought. In humans. In me now.

The wall grew and shrank, flourishing under the retinal views of Will staring blankly at it. How it ovaled in big gaping swirls, how it meandered through the burn marks and chipped areas, how it collided with the ground and almost seemed to cackle with frustration at its confinement. Confinement. Like the straightjacket. Like the paintings. Like Will. 

 

How hard Will had fought to prevent himself from tumbling into this creature of conflictions, a state of being where the only two things he thirsted was blood and the consciousness to suppress that urge to kill. He so desperately wanted to tear Hannibal’s throat out, tear apart Jack, track down Alana and Margot and Bedilia- all of them. Allow himself to kill them for their betrayals, for leaving him alone with Hannibal. But Will couldn’t and that’s exactly what Hannibal wanted. To maintain Will’s empathy. 

Will was sitting in a room on the third floor. It mostly contained boxes and cobwebs, but it had a nice chair that overlooked a window, gazing out over the driveway. Outside, big weeping willows brushed up against the breeze, a small garden loomed off to the side, and a winding dirt driveway disappeared into a forest of oaks and aspens. There were no other houses in sight, and at night Will could see no city lights off in any direction, only the winking pinpoints of layered heavenly stardust that dappled the navy sheets above. 

Hannibal was out, so Will was free to do his daily wandering. He creaked back into the rocking chair, watching as a robin sorted through the ground to find insects. He creaked back, forward, then back again, restless. He creaked forward, shifted, then the bird flew off so he creaked back. 

Creak  
Creak  
Creak  
Creak

Each time the chair rocked, the floorboards beneath moaned with age, spitting up dust and strong wooden earthy scents until everything seemed to smell of wet bark. Will creaked forward, he creaked back. Now there was a swallow, and a pigeon. A pair of morning doves. A meadow lark. Then a flash of orange- an oriol. Will creaked forward. The doves were gone. A wasp thumped against the window pane. He creaked back, a cloud covered the sunlight. 

Creak  
Creak  
Creak  
Creak

He leaned forward and now the entire yard appeared a shade darker- as if the sun was setting. He leaned back. It grew dimmer still. Forward- the willows were now thrashing against some angry wind, whipping at the branches, hurtling fists at the birds, torturing the oaks and aspens and garden plants until they bent under its power. Will leaned back. The wendigo was there now, lurking behind the trees, flashing in and out of his peripheral sight like moving black dots, but never making himself clear. Will’s eyes darted. The wendigo scrambled. 

Creak  
Creak  
Creak  
Creak

Will had not moved. He shook under the fear of the wind coming inside- tearing up the house, tumbling into him. He feared the wendigo, his imaginary friend that held free-reign over Will’s imagination, and thus his entirety. The wendigo held his soul. The wendigo held his sanity. The wendigo was creaking inside the house now, moving, padding, whispering through the walls and down the hallways. 

Creak  
Creak  
Creak  
Creak

Will’s eyes wandered away from the scene outside, low mumbles of thunder parading through the atmosphere, but yet no rain. The wind shrieked angrily, devilishly, knowingly. It laughed even, it wailed. 

Creak  
Creak

The wendigo creeped. Will could see it around him- it’s slender figure circling him like a vulture- it’s glazed, black eyes watching, thinking. 

Creak

“Please-” Will whispered, his breath catching in his throat, his arms tensed and hands trembling. After years now, the wendigo was here to take him, swallow him, bring him to the same abyss Hannibal dwelled in. 

Creak

The wendigo placed a finger over Will’s mouth, then dragged it over his face, swirling over his nose, brushing over his eyes, tracing his scar, then wrapping around his throat. The leathery dark hands tightened, and then Will could not breath. He choked and tried to squirm, but found that he could not move. Outside the wind clawed and screamed- not in agony, in glee. It screamed at the glee of causing agony. The willows wept. 

The wendigo was drowning him, and Will was stuck. The wendigo was preparing him, boiling him, eating away at him like an insect. He tried to close his eyes, but they were seemingly pried open. Tears stung at them. He squirmed but the wendigo only squeezed tighter, viscera dripping from it’s antler’s to Will’s contorted face. 

“Please-” he cracked again. Please.

But Will remained confined. It wasn’t that the monster was inside of him, no, it was that he was stuck within the monster itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! As always thanks for reading. I'm trying something a little different with this story, but I'm still not sure which direction it's heading. I you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Expect another chapter soon


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I've been super busy. As always, expect more soon, and feedback is always highly appreciated.

The nightmares were the easy part- the hard part was waking from them. Hannibal was always the one to shake him awake, trying to save Will from his terrored figments, not knowing that it was him that Will truly feared. He would wake from his place of shadows and strange contorted ideas- only to be interrupted by the crow-eyes of Hannibal, his face grimy and his breath smelling of something raw and meaty. Will would have to push him away, tell him to leave, and wait until his body stopped shivering before returning to the bliss of his reddened dreams. 

One night he woke crying. It wasn't out of the ordinary- he always seemed one step away from completely going mental and it seemed that letting loose and weeping for a bit was the only thing that anchored him to the gravity of a real life. Hannibal was there- dressed in some frilly lavender suit and weirdly white tie- dressed for no other occasion than his solitary dinner and to churn Will’s insides with the juxtaposition. 

“Will.” He would mutter. “Will. Will,” repeating his name like a broken record between Will’s noises, as if just the mere mention of his name would help sooth him. In a weird way it did, tying him back to his identity which he was so tirelessly trying to keep. “Will. Hush now. Will.”

Then Will would steadily comply, forcing himself to remain calm in the repulsive presence of his former friend. He would nod to tell Hannibal that he was okay, that he should leave, but that night Hannibal did not. Will nodded and nodded, trying his best to utter a ‘i’m fine’, or ‘I think i’m good now,’ but Hannibal did not leave and his continued presence only upset Will more. 

“Will. Why are you upset, why are you crying?” Hannibal stared at him expectantly, but he knew what was wrong with Will, and Will knew that Hannibal knew. 

“Why?!,” Will blurted out into the dark, conjuring up images of a knife, the blood, the savage feeling running its course through his veins- the night he and Hannibal killed the tooth fairy. “Why did you do this to me?”. 

It was a question that had long gone unanswered, that is, why Hannibal was so dedicated to intricately spinning the webs in Will’s life, ambushing his soul, infecting his mind, grating away the parts of his heart that made sense. 

“No one did anything to you Will. No one. These are all your choices, all your causes from your own free will. You chose this path, not me.” A flicker of amusement darted across Hannibal’s face, as if he was still spinning his webs. “You don’t believe in fate, don’t you?”

“I believe that you did this to me. You wanted me to be this ruthless killer, you wanted to see how far you could push human morals, see if you could move from feasting on human flesh to the human soul.”

“Will, I never intended for you to be a ‘ruthless killer’ nor do I now and nor are you. Can you not see that what we did that night, it was beautiful. Even after the killing you agreed, you saw what I see, you did what you always knew you had to do.”

It was disturbing and crooked, but Will could see that it was beautiful, just as the screaming angels in the paintings were beautiful despite their animosity. He just hated himself for it. He hated himself for understanding, for romanticizing Hannibal’s actions, for empathizing with him. “Go away.”

“That night, you broke all boundaries, you stared into the eye of God and laughed. You were driven past all of your reasoning and your standards and your petty morals, only to be left with a need to kill. Yet you retain your thoughts, your imagination, your compassion. That is why I took interest in you Will. You will never seize to stop being compassionate, even when you are grasping a knife, covering in the blood of another.”

Will took up mindless shaking again after that, staring off past Hannibal, into the yellow wallpaper behind him, his words still ringing in his ears. Of course Hannibal was right, of course he was. Hannibal never wanted nothing more than to recreate himself in Will. He shuddered. 

“You see Will, now you can be enlightened. You may view the world as you please, not as you are told. You may dream what you want to dream, not the nightmares.”

Eventually Hannibal departed, and Will continued to shake and thrash, a terrible feeling coiled up inside of him like a squirming nest of insects. The insects hummed and buzzed in his ears, then chattered their way across the wallpaper, scuttling and clicking. The wallpaper only seemed to respond with a flat unknowingness, a blankness of mind and aptitude until that philosophy lulled Will back to sleep.

It was odd. That was the first night he did not have a nightmare.


	4. Cosmo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a little more light hearted, yay!
> 
>  
> 
> ...but just know this is a calm before the storm...

The first time Will went outside was about six months after the fall. Prior to it, he never really saw a reason to exit the mansion- the world out there held something against him, hurt him in ways he was sick going through, he was so sick of feeling the need to worm his way into other people’s lives and thoughts, trying to understand them, trying to help them, but really only resulting in hurting them and himself for that matter. How much blood was the direct cause of Will? Too much, too much for his consciousness to handle, so better to just hide it here, where only Hannibal could see. Hannibal. The direct cause for most of his own bloodshed. 

The day he had gone outside was a little dreary- grey cloud cover smothering the sky out like it was strangling out the empyreans, but also wrapping the world in its warm grey fabrics, making everything seem a little smaller than it actually was. Making it seem that everyone was a little more sheltered than they really were. Making is so that it seemed as if God couldn’t see them anymore, couldn’t see whatever we were all doing here on earth. Will wouldn’t have gone out have he not heard the bark. 

At first he thought it was all in his head, just him trying to remind himself of his better times, when the world could be summed up in his pack of misfit dogs and ranch style house in Baltimore. But then he saw the dog, out in the front yard, barking a squirrel up a tree. It looked like your typical mutt type- wiry hair, pointy ears, a bushy tail like a german shepard but a body like a lab or something. It wagged its tail apathetically at the squirrel up the tree, chattering the other sounds away. 

Will watched it for a bit, telling himself that he would stay inside, wait for the dog to leave then sleep. That’s what he needed, he needed to sleep. He shouldn't be exercising his brain like this. Will needed to recover, to fix his mentality, but then again there was a dog in the front yard. A dog. 

He let himself outside, the front door far heavier than he expected. As soon as the big oak thing moved the dog looked up, brown ears pointed to the sky like satellite dishes. He remained still for a moment, but it only took him a second to wag his tail in human company. 

“Hey buddy, hey boy.”

The dog seemed to forget the squirrel and padded over to Will, who was not really standing outside so much as leaning out from behind the door, trying not to get high off of the fresh air, trying not to let himself fall back into the order of the moving world. He liked staying in his frame here. Or maybe he truly did lose it and now he was even afraid of the outside, just making excuses to cover up how screwed up he actually was. 

It had no collar, which for Will was the trademark of an unclaimed dog, one that anyone can just take, so he offered for it to come inside. The mutt paused in front of Will, panted, then strolled in without much of a hesitation. 

Will shut the door as quickly as he could, the stained glass framing the wood creeping him out and the feel of the outside coming inside disturbing him more. 

 

“I’m like 75% sure this is pepperoni, but who the hell can tell.” Will tossed the chunks of meat to the dog, scratching its ears every so often, the dog responding with a faint wag of the tail, a small grin- the kind of smiles a dog gives. For the first time in a long time- years maybe, too long- Will smiled back. For a moment, the wendigo wasn’t chattering in his peripheral vision, the shadows weren’t as long as they used to be, the pain in his head resided. 

“Yea, yea. I hope it’s pepperoni.” He watched the dog finish off the meat. “Lost? I’m lost too I think. Well- i’m lost but it’s a good sort of lost. I don’t want to be found. Surely you do?”

The dog wagged it’s tail again, ears perked and the grimy, scruffy hair already coating a good portion of the floor in shedded fur. It watched Will as if it understood what he was talking about, as if he cared to listen. No one cared to listen to Will, not really. Hannibal used to, but that was until Will found that he was only using his personal life to manipulate him. Alana used to, until she started to manipulate him too. Dogs don’t manipulate people. They can’t hurt you. They just want food and love, and they will listen. 

The dog sat on its haunches, staring at Will patiently. 

“Good dog. Good boy. You don’t have to be lost.”

Will led the dog- which he started to refer to as ‘Cosmo’ for his obnoxiously large satellite ears- up to his room. He stole a bunch of flannel and pillows from other rooms and put together a bed next to his. Cosmo watched patiently, then stood and laid over Will’s work before getting up and sniffing out the room. 

He then whined for a second, and Will heard the front door open.

Internally, Will felt like recoiling, not wanting to talk to or think of Hannibal. Cosmo seemed to think differently, as he raced down the stairs to greet another human. 

From below Will heard a frantic “Will? Will? What-”

Will followed the dog down to greet Hannibal as well, keeping his vision lowered so he didn’t have to see whatever Hannibal was thinking, whatever he had done today in his free time, whatever was in the bags he was carrying.

“Will where did this dog come from?”

Cosmo panted happily, intoxicated by the fact that there was now not one but two humans. 

“Just, just outside. He seemed like he needed a place to stay.”

Hannibal stepped back from the dog. “No. No you need to sleep. You need to adapt Will, and this dog will not help you. I’ll get rid of it tomorrow morning.”

“Uh- n-no.”

“You are sick Will, do you really think taking care of a dog will help?”

Will looked down at Cosmo, meandering through the kitchen, sweeping for anything left over. The house didn’t seem as threatening, his life shimmered a little on the edges. Dogs are inherently better than people, Will decided. “I’ve been sick for years Hannibal. I’m keeping Cosmo.”

“It has a name?” 

Ignoring Hannibal, Will turned back to the stairs to go dwell in his room, Cosmo quick to follow him.

“Will? Will? Are we going to talk about this?”

“Nope.”

 

The wallpaper expanded and contracted, as if in response to some cosmic wave no one could really see. It manifested and rotted and got sick, the yellows varying and changing in a myriad of different hues and shades and values. Behind it all, the wendigo creeped- its antlers fashioned from human bone- bits of red still clinging to it. Its body a slick black like a burnt corpse, blackened skin clinging to the countless skeletal structure beneath. The wendigo pushed up against the wallpaper, seemingly screaming silently and trying to reach out to touch Will. 

Will could do nothing but watch, wait for it’s grotesque hand to break through and smother him. He watched it press down on his lungs, his ribs suddenly in a great pain as if the wendigo was about to snap them. It kept pushing and pushing, the bone prodding into Will’s lungs, the air squeezed out from him. Will started to panic- the wendigo was going to crush him, bury him alive in its own flesh. 

“Stop, stop.” He murmured. “Go away. Please.”, he pleaded.

The wendigo responded with a sound that cracked like a whip, hissed like a tea kettle, coddled like a mother’s tone. Then it pushed Will’s head into the the bed, a surface that was now hard and painful. It pushed so hard, his skull crushing now.

“No more. No more.” Will trembled and shook, his hands clenched in terror. 

Cosmo brushed up against Will’s hand before jumping up onto the bed, taking a moment to settle himself at the foot of the bed, his body heat and stray-dog smell filtering through the sheets. 

The wendigo left. The wallpaper was just wallpaper again. The dog snored, and Will went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Expect more soon, and as always, comments are revered with godly status.

**Author's Note:**

> Expect more soon


End file.
